Things We Lost in the Fire

Mariana Enriquez’s “Things We Lost in the Fire” isn’t a collection you pick up for light reading or a quick scare. It’s a deep dive into the underbelly of contemporary Argentina, where the real horrors are tangled up with social decay, political trauma, and gender violence. These twelve stories don’t just flirt with horror tropes—they use them as a lens to examine the lives of women and marginalized people grappling with brutal realities.

At first glance, these stories might feel like urban legends or ghost tales. But get past the eerie atmospheres and you find sharp social commentary. Take “The Dirty Kid,” where a middle-class woman’s obsession with a homeless child pulls her—and us—into the gritty, forgotten parts of the city. It’s not just about the supernatural; it’s about class disparity and the invisible people who haunt modern urban life.

Or look at “Adela’s House,” where a young girl vanishes after entering an abandoned house. It’s a story that plays with curiosity and fear of the unknown, but also hints at the dangers lurking beneath the surface of everyday life. Enriquez has a knack for blurring the line between the supernatural and the psychological, making you question whether the real threat is a ghost or the society that breeds it.

Violence, especially gender-based violence, is a thread running through the collection like a dark river. The title story, “Things We Lost in the Fire,” is a brutal, unforgettable exploration of women who use self-immolation to protest male violence. It’s a shocking act that challenges patriarchal control, showing these women reclaiming their bodies and voices in the most extreme way. Enriquez refuses to sugarcoat the pain or the anger, making these stories raw and unsettling.

Stylistically, Enriquez’s writing is sharp and clear, but never clinical. She builds dread slowly, weaving social critique into every creepy detail. The horror here isn’t about jump scares; it’s about a persistent, gnawing unease that mirrors the characters’ psychological states and the societal rot around them. The result is a haunting atmosphere that sticks with you long after you put the book down.

Reading this collection is not for the faint of heart. Enriquez doesn’t shy away from graphic content or uncomfortable truths. But if you’re willing to face the darkness, you get a powerful look at human resilience and the complexities of Argentine society. It’s horror that makes you think, that unsettles not just because of ghosts or gore, but because it holds up a mirror to real-world suffering.

What makes “Things We Lost in the Fire” stand out is how it centers women’s experiences in a genre that often sidelines them. Enriquez breaks down binary and hierarchical gender roles, showing how patriarchy and violence shape—and sometimes shatter—these lives. The stories don’t offer easy answers or neat resolutions, but they give voice to struggles that are often ignored.

Now, this collection might not be everyone’s cup of mate. The pacing can be uneven, and some readers might find the blend of horror and social critique a heavy mix. But if you’re into literary fiction that’s not afraid to get its hands dirty, that challenges you to see horror beyond clichés, this book is a rare find. It’s a snapshot of a society still haunted by its past and its present, told through stories that are as unsettling as they are illuminating.